


THE RED SERPENT: THE STORY OF AIRIN TREVELYAN

by Caden_Parker



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Acceptance, Airin is an unapologetic flirt, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Andrastianism (Dragon Age), Angst, Bisexual Cassandra Pentaghast, Casual Sex, Dark Character, Drama, Explicit Language, F/F, Femslash, Friends With Benefits, Half-Elven Inquisitor, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Jealous Cassandra, Lesbian Sex, Mage Rights, POV Multiple, Racism, Rare Pairings, Religious Conflict, Rough Sex, Sera and the Inquisitor fool around, The Inquisitor has Issues, Violence, but it's nothing serious, coming to terms with sexuality, mention of rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-05 02:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17316422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caden_Parker/pseuds/Caden_Parker
Summary: Airin Trevelyan has never fit the mold. The bastard daughter of Comte Pierre of Halamshiral and a nameless elven wench, her half-elven blood is a visible deterrent in Orlesian society; a stain on her father’s name. She is shunned from a life of privilege within the capital, sent instead to the Free Marcher city of Ostwick as recompense.Discontented with her new life, she roams from Kirkwall to Antiva. Falling in with the Crows, she becomes a prominent swords-woman and assassin, only finding solace in drink and women, until she is called home upon hearing news of  the Divine Conclave. Her adoptive family, convinced that hearing the words of the Divine will stir in her some will to change, send Airin as a representative to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.It all spirals from there, as she becomes more than herself, and finds herself falling for the most taciturn woman she’s ever met — Cassandra Pentaghast.





	THE RED SERPENT: THE STORY OF AIRIN TREVELYAN

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: Any and all characters in the DA universe belong solely to Bioware. ©
> 
> Author’s Note: This is a story of redemption, of self-acceptance, but mostly it’s about perseverance. There is a fair amount of internalized homophobia on Cassandra’s part in this fic, but as the story progresses and she begins to come to terms with herself, it fades. However, if an angst-filled, and at times downright unlikable Seeker isn’t your thing, I suggest finding something else to read. 
> 
> I don’t write “clean” characters. Airin Trevelyan is a misfit in every sense of the word, so if you’re looking for a fluff-filled Cassandra/Female Inquisitor story, sweet enough to give you a toothache, this ain’t it, folks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **French Translations (Orlesian):  
> **  
>  Pourquoi suis-je ici: Why am I here?  
> Mon amour: My love  
> Je ne suis plus ton amoureux: I'm not your lover anymore  
> Non, bien que j'aimerais que tu sois: No, but I wish you were  
> Tu m'as manqué: I have missed you  
> Près mort a visité vous: Near death has visited you  
> Je vous remercie: Thank you
> 
>  **Elvish Translations:  
> **  
>  As ghilas ava fenedhis lasa – She can go eat a wolf’s dick.  
> Arani - my friend.  
> Dirthas Elvhen? - Do you speak Elvhen? 
> 
> **_**Chapter has been Revised** **__**_**

They called her The Red Serpent, due in part to the innate quickness her half-elven blood afforded her. An unsavory glorification, regardless, Cassandra thought, eyes scanning the report Leliana had given her with distaste. The moniker had been given, so the tales ran, to commemorate the fact that her tongue was as sharp as her blades. To the Seeker, the title seemed trite and unimpressive, though she supposed she would think differently had not the circumstances of securing the prisoner been terrifying.

It was implausible that one woman could cause so much chaos, and yet Airin Trevelyan  _was_ the sole survivor, pulled free from the ashes of the temple, barely breathing but alive. The Maker’s hand was in this, of that Cassandra had no doubt, she simply could not see His plan as of yet. Cassandra scrubbed her face as frustration gave way to anger. The prisoner had been unconscious since the explosion, halting any reassurances she might have gleaned from her wakefulness. The Seeker’s jaw flexed, she could no longer endure this idleness — this unbearable  _stillness_. 

Finishing her mug of water in two swallows — she would not allow herself the numbing luxury of port — she stood from her corner table in The Singing Maiden and made her way out into the biting wind of Haven. Nods of polite acknowledgment were given as she passed Sisters and peasants alike, all engaged in idle gossip concerning the prisoner. She bore it with what she hoped was silent indifference, though she could feel knots reforming in her shoulders.

“Ah, Seeker!” Leliana greeted as Cassandra approached, her sky-blue eyes moving from the scout she was conversing with to the older woman’s worn face. “Renna, if you would give us a moment?” The dark-skinned youth bowed to them both before quietly slipping away. “Our friend is quite intriguing, no?” the bard began conversationally as Cassandra handed the report back to her.  

“You take too vested an interest where the prisoner is concerned. We do not yet know her part in this.”

“She is an anomaly worth studying,” Leliana replied, brushing off the reprimand with ease. “And I must admit what little information I could uncover in regards to her origin was most engrossing. Aside from the public disgrace her father suffered, and the fact that the Trevelyans gave her their name as part of a trading agreement, it is difficult to trace her. I suspect coin has silenced many mouths on the subject."  

Cassandra sighed. “That does not surprise me. Coin influences even the loosest of tongues." The spymaster nodded in agreement. Behind them, the creak of the Chantry's doors sounded, causing them both to turn with expectant looks to the Templar who approached.

"She stirs."   
  


* * *

  
When she woke, it was to darkness and the flare of green light. The pain that radiated from her left palm was indifferent to her grogginess. Sharp as a poisoned blade, it cut through her stupor fully, forcing a choked gasp from between her teeth. "Still yourself," a male voice soothed from the shadows. "The pain will pass." Airin squinted into the darkness, able only to make out the reflective surface of smoke-gray eyes in the firelight of... a dungeon? Yes, it smelled of rot, dank and unforgiving to her senses. "I am Solas, if there are to be introductions," said the man — the elf — as he stepped forward, flashing a comforting smile. 

Airin opened her mouth to reply but found that the words died on her lips as the door to her prison opened. The silhouette of a woman appeared. Airin noticed she moved with a warrior's comportment, lacking the slight feminine sway of hips she was used to seeing. Her face, kissed by the sun and all sharp angles, was scarred, though not horribly; proof of strength in the rogue's eyes. Her own face bore similar imperfections — a scar above her right brow and one in the left corner of her mouth — both from drunken brawls. 

"You may go," the warrior said coolly to the gray-eyed stranger, her dark gaze intent on Airin as she spoke. Usually awe colored the expressions of those who first looked upon the rogue, due to her lavender-colored eyes, fair skin, and slightly pointed ears, but the woman's face remained unreadable. When they were alone, or rather under the illusion of it, (Airin could sense a second presence looming just outside the door — a moderator, no doubt), the warrior spoke again, the sharpness of her consonants cementing the rogue's suspicion that she was Nevarren in origin. "Her Holiness is dead, buried beneath rubble, as is everyone who attended the Conclave. You are the sole survivor." The woman's sword-point grazed her throat, beneath her chin.  _"Why?"_

Airin blinked, but kept a steely countenance — she would not let this woman — a Seeker, by her armor — see how rattled her words made her.  _Maker, Uncle Kalob... I'm sorry._  He'd been a knight in the Templar order, a kind man with the look of one who had seen too much of the world's violence — too many useless transgressions. He'd trained her in the art of dueling, all the while speaking of the Maker's work with an enthusiasm that often confounded her. When word of the Conclave had reached her family, and her father had deemed it necessary for her to go —  _"You represent the whole of the Trevelyan house, you must attend. Let the Maker's light fill your heart, child. He will bring you clarity —"_   Her Uncle had volunteered to accompany her with the eagerness of a boy. "I don't know."

A muscle in the woman's cheek twitched. "You're  _lying_! How do you explain  _this_  then?!" She lowered her sword, only to grab Airin's bound wrist _;_ the ominous green light flaring to life in response to the chained woman's anger.

"Cassandra." The shadow near the door spoke, making the name a cautious admonishment as she approached, laying a hand on the other woman's shoulder. She looked at Airin, the smallest of apologetic smiles at the edge of her mouth as Cassandra released her. "Do you remember anything?" Her voice was pleasant, beseeching — a soft, familiar Orlesian accent rounding her vowels. _A sharp contrast to the Nevarran_ , Airin thought, holding the gaze of the woman who had so boldly accosted her. 

"I remember nothing aside from the smell of burning flesh," Airin replied, watching with some satisfaction as the scarred woman's face paled. "The screams of the dying. And a woman—" 

"A woman?"

"She reached for me. It was as if... she was made of light..." The rogue's black brows furrowed, electric eyes clouding as she tried to remember. Cassandra ground her teeth. Either the prisoner was a fine actress — capable, even, of conquering the Orlesian stage — or she truly had no recollection of the events that had brought her here. 

The mark flared again, as if possessing its own pulse. Airin dropped her gaze from the Nevarran's face, looking with bewilderment at the nameless, magical, Maker-damned  _thing_ on her palm. Dark eyes locked with hers as the light abated, as Cassandra knelt and undid her shackles. "Go to the forward camp, Leliana." 

"Are you certain? What if—" 

"Go. I will deal with her." The redhead nodded, and, seeing that her counterpart would not waver on this, slipped from the darkness in silence. Airin's eyes shifted back to the woman in front of her, trying, still, to derive some semblance of understanding from the harsh line of the Seeker's mouth. "If you run, I will not hesitate to end you. Do you understand?" The rogue nodded, rubbing her raw wrists as Cassandra stepped into the shadows, reappearing with her sheathed dual long-swords in hand. She watched silently as Airin strapped the well-worn leather harness to her back. "Any forewarning I give you will not suffice. I suggest you steel yourself now, while given the chance."

"Against _what_?" Irritation shone in the rogue's lavender eyes. 

Cassandra sighed. "Only the Maker truly knows."  
  


* * *

  
Airin considered herself an adaptable sort. She'd suffered many times in her life — at her own hand, even, and had made do with her circumstances, her consequences, self-inflicted or no — but she had no idea how to conqueror the Breach. No contingency plan of easily accessible wit would keep the demons at bay, and so, as is often the case with fear that lingers in one’s spine, her answer lay in her blades.

The cold of the Frostbacks slammed into her lungs as she drew breath, making her cough. Maker, she missed the warmth of Antiva! Bloodied swords in hand, she straightened, facing her captor with something like pride in her chest. Her blades had only ever tasted the yielding flesh of the unlucky, never the husks of shades. “Well, that was refreshing.”

Cassandra, yanking her blade free of the last demon’s belly with a grunt, turned furious eyes on the pale woman basking so arrogantly in her victory. "You think this amusing?" 

Airin’s mouth quirked as she ran a long-fingered hand through her black hair, combing snow from its long, straight strands. “What other option besides humor is there, Seeker, when demons are pissing from the sky? I suppose I _could_ try dismembering the horrors of the Fade with my teeth, though the sight may prove ghastly.”

The Seeker glared at her. “Your glibness is not flattering.”

“It is not meant to be.”

Cassandra sighed, sheathing her sword in a gesture of begrudging acceptance. “Very well. Come, we must assist those at the forward camp." Nodding, Airin wiped her blades on the freshly accumulated snow, sheathing them to lie in wait for the next batch of demons.  
  


* * *

  
Solas could not help but look at the Halfling before him in sheer wonder. She had  _absorbed_ the magic of the rift, seemingly by no conscious will of her own. It had been a gamble on his part, the idea that this soul would be able to conqueror such a feat, and yet he had been correct. She stared at her hand as if it were something foreign to her, blinking unusually vibrant eyes — a feature of her elven blood, he surmised. He cleared his throat. "It seems you hold the key to our salvation." 

"Maker have mercy," Cassandra muttered. Airin couldn't decipher her tone, whether it was fear, or reverence. Perhaps both. She shrugged, unable to fall back on wits when she simply had no reply. "Solas—" he noted the barely hidden excitement in the Seeker's gaze, but did not comment — "Does this mean—?" 

"Whether or not the mark is of divine providence matters little, Seeker. Your prisoner holds the power to seal the Breach — For now, that is answer enough."   

The dwarf, who had introduced himself to Airin as Varric, nodded. "I agree. So long as we're not ass-deep in demons, I'm happy." Cassandra, having nothing more to say on the matter in the presence of an apostate, and in the face of a woman whose faith she would not presume to know, kept silent as they walked farther still to the forward camp, and beyond that, to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.   
  


* * *

  
Something like a memory — or was it a dream? — played in Airin's mind while she gazed at the Breach: 

**_We have an intruder. Slay the Halfling, now!_ **

**_A woman's voice, calling for aid._ **

**_Smoke._ **

_**Screams.** _

**_Green, unfamiliar light._ **

_**Running.** _

Her head ached; why couldn't she  _remember_? The Nevarran was yelling at her again, demanding answers she didn't have. Anger built up inside her, unable to be quelled any longer. "I don't have your answers!" she growled. 

A pride demon ripped itself free of the Veil then, halting all conversation as Leliana's agents pierced the beast with arrows, all to protect the woman covered in its blood, shouting obscenities in Orlesian, with no obvious care if she lived or died. Such was the way of The Red Serpent. As the demon's massive claw dug mercilessly into her side, the rogue, never one to be outdone, gathered her strength and sliced through the beast's arm, eliciting from it such a satisfying shriek that Airin's mouth, bloodied now with proof of her skill, smiled. A shot to the head and the beast fell, dropping her to the ground. Her bones groaned on impact; she heard snapping... Her ribs, perhaps... she wasn't sure. Her vision, now stained red, focused still on the green light above her. 

 _"Trevelyan_!" Cassandra cried, having seen the fall. _Maker, if she dies —_ Raising her hand, Airin made a fist, effectively closing the Breach. She felt herself slipping, the voices and sounds of battle fading to nothing. It was just as well, she thought, a small smile on her lips as darkness consumed her; she had nothing to live for anyway.  
  


* * *

_  
"Anneliese?" Airin blinked, confused by the apparition of her former lover. She hadn't seen her in years, barring the exception of her family's last holiday to the capitol, which had been, as it turned out, a celebration of Anneliese's engagement to a distant cousin with a flair for the dramatic._

_Airin had gracefully declined the tearful suggestion of continued dalliance, not having sought her out since. Yet, her mind conjured the woman's blonde hair and startling green eyes with a clarity that shocked her. They were lying together now, wrapped in silk sheets as if nothing of consequence had come between them. As if the rogue hadn't, in the foolishness of youth, scaled the Spire and sought the mage out at every opportunity, under the guise of simply visiting with her family._

_Pale light surrounded them, as if the sun itself had been captured, and was shinning just for them. "Anneliese, pourquoi suis-je ici?" The Orlesian tongue came back to her easily. Though she had been raised in Ostwick, Airin's father had been devout that his daughter be as learned as possible._

_The blonde head on her bare breast moved, pressing a smile into the skin. "Do not be frightened, mon amour. You are merely dreaming." The mage moved away from the comfort of warm skin, rising on her elbow to look into troubled violet eyes._

_The brunette frowned. "Je ne suis plus ton amoureux."_

_Anneliese smiled sadly. "Non, bien que j'aimerais que tu sois."  She cupped Airin's cheek._ " _Tu m'as manqué."_

_The rogue shook her head. "Why are you here?"_

_"I felt your spirit fading. Your body has been grievously wounded, Airin. I came to offer comfort should you pass to the Maker's side. Près mort_   _a visité vous."  The rogue, having lost her tongue to awe, said nothing. Her former lover smiled. "You parted from me, and for that I cannot fault you — for my treatment of you was abominable in the end, unworthy of forgiveness — but you cannot yet part with life, darling. The world would be emptier for it."_

 _Airin smiled then, seeing the sincerity in the blonde's emerald gaze. Leaning forward, she gently pecked her lips. " Je vous remercie,"  she murmured._  
  


* * *

  
She woke slowly as she was lifted from the haze of her dream. Shadows of firelight danced on wooden walls, and a rough, military-issued pallet made itself known to her aching body, groaning in tandem with her as she rose, managing only to prop herself up on her right elbow before she hissed in pain.  _Maker's bloody ball sack, this hurts!_ Placing a hand gingerly over her bandaged side, she realized she was naked from the waist up, wearing only her breast-band and soiled trousers and boots. Bruises and scraps littered her frame, some only just beginning to heal from the explosion at the Conclave. 

 _You'd think they'd at least leave a bloody blanket_ , she thought irritably, rubbing her bare arm as goose-flesh pricked it and a shudder ran through her.  

"Oh!" A startled female voice shook her free of her thoughts. A slight, mousy-looking elven woman was staring at her, hands trembling as she struggled to keep hold of the box she was carrying. "I'm sorry! I didn't know you were awake, I—" 

Airin gave the girl a genteel smile. "It's all right. There's no need to be frightened. What's happened?" 

"You're back in Haven, My Lady. People saw what you did at the Breach, and —  _Fenedhis!"_ she swore, dropping the box due to shaking hands. The rogue smirked. She had heard the expletive among the city-elf whores she had kept company with; to hear it from this girl — who was undoubtedly only in her fifteenth year, and exuberated such an air of innocence that it was palpable — made her laugh. Her ribs protested the gesture. On her knees now, Airin watched as the elf gathered the supplies, bandages and healing salve for her wounds.

"What's your name?" she asked, watching as a blush crept across the younger woman's face.

"My — My name, Messere?" Light brown eyes lifted from their task, studied the Halfling in surprise. "Elera, My Lady." 

"Elera," Airin smiled. "Can you tell me how long I've been here?" 

"Three days, My Lady. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand." Airin raised her left hand, frowning at the slit of green embedded in her skin. Elera rose. "If I may tend to your wounds, Messere. Lady Cassandra said I was to report back at once if you woke." 

The rogue nodded consent, easing herself back down onto the pallet with a wince. "Very well. Though please call me Airin, Elera. The title of 'Lady' has never quite sat well with me." 

The girl nodded, gaze and fingers busy as she unwrapped the soiled bandage from Airin's side. The hedge mage had said that the claw marks were healing nicely. Elera was not a proper healer — that job she had left to the mage — but she had to agree. The Herald healed quickly, and although the beast's mark would be left, it would soon morph into a story worth telling. At least, she thought so. 

"Where is she? Lady Cassandra?" Airin asked, trying not to squirm as fresh salve was applied to her side. 

"In the Chantry, with the Lord Chancellor." 

Airin's brows creased in thought. She remembered him — Roderick, wasn't it? The pinch-faced, sanctimonious, (and by extension unbearable), man she had met at the forward camp. She sighed, her breath slightly hitching as Elera applied pressure to her wound, starting to wrap strips of clean white linen around her middle. "Oh,  _him_. And the Seeker's been staving off his nonsensical rhetoric regarding my execution for three days, I assume?" The elf nodded. "Then I pity her, truly." Airin smirked. "His presence is hardly enjoyable."

"No, Messere," Elera agreed quietly. "Might you be able to rise? I need to wrap this about your shoulder." Airin grit her teeth, forced herself into a sitting position. The girl winced in sympathy. "Thank you," she said softly. "I'm sorry to cause you pain... Airin." The rogue caught the reddish tint on the younger woman's cheek from the corner of her eye and smiled. Reaching up, she placed her hand over the girl's nimble fingers, squeezing once in silent thanks. "Finished, Messere," the elf murmured, wrought with a fluttering in her stomach.  _Creators, she's so gallant!_ "I will inform Lady Cassandra." Nervously, she rose, collected the empty box and gestured with her chin to the end of the Herald's bed. "There's a loose-fitting tunic there for you. It shouldn't trouble your wounds." 

Airin nodded, flashing the girl a final white grin as she placed her boots on the floor and took up the shirt. Elera bowed her head and fled, intent on trying to calm her racing heart before informing the Seeker. 

The rogue stifled a groan through chapped, cut lips as she eased the rough white cloth over her battered torso. The neckline curved down over her decolletage in a deep arc, showcasing her clavicle and the silver signet ring around her neck. Not the warmest of garments, but it would have to do for present. With a sigh, she pushed herself up, squaring her shoulders as she headed for the Chantry.  
  


* * *

  
The reverence which colored the faces of those outside her door unnerved her. It was nothing short of hero-worship, the way the villagers and Chantry sisters bowed. Their submissiveness baffled her, so clear in their bent necks and lowered eyes. She walked through the throng in silence. Cries of "Hail, Herald!" and "Maker be praised!" echoed in her ears like the insistent buzzing of bees. 

She quickened her step. 

The inside of the Chantry smelt too thickly of incense, of sage.  _The smell of oppression_ , she thought, a wry smile touching her lips as she recalled her father's chapel, of the hours she had spent on the hard floor beneath the statue of the Prophet, seeking answers in the stone woman's face. 

Airin didn't care what the surface dwarves in Kirkwall claimed — rocks held no wisdom, they merely gave the illusion of insight. She had knelt beside her father, had glanced at his calm, sure face and wished for the same sense of peace — of purpose — but no such feeling ever came. She was not one for internal stillness; her mind was that of a philosopher, forever questioning the religious hypocrisy with which her father was so at ease.

"You've gone mad," Roderick declared maliciously, voice slightly muffled by the door Airin stood in front of, silent as death as her fate was decided. "She should be taken to Val Royeaux! Hanged! You have no proof that it was not _she_ who caused the explosion!"

"Come now, Chancellor," a thick Antivian accent intoned, "See reason. A non-mage woman with no ties to the extraordinary beyond her birth cannot be the only suspect." 

"Save your words, Ambassador," Cassandra replied tiredly. "Sense is beyond him." 

"Agreed," Leliana said sharply. Tense silence followed, broken only by the pounding of blood in the rogue's ears.  _Hanged?_ Airin touched her neck, adrenaline spiking momentarily.  _Balls to that, you fucking cur!_ Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself before opening the door, schooling her features into a mask of insouciance. 

"I may look quite fetching in rope," she said with an air of impertinence as she locked eyes with Roderick, "But that's a bit excessive. Don't you think, Chancellor? Surely the Maker would disapprove of such a burn about my neck. What kind of impression would it make?" 

He glared at her. "How dare you make light of this! The Maker shall smite you for your blasphemy, girl." 

The rogue smiled cruelly, violet eyes gleaming with anger. "That is not for you to decide, Chancellor. The will of your Maker is not meant to be understood by the human heart, least of all by pretentious men in robes who claim possession if a mage so much as wiggles their fingers." 

Roderick snarled, akin to a beaten dog in the throes of his fury, and turned to the templars guarding the door's interior. "Chain her! Her vile tongue shall be _silenced_!"  

"Disregard that," Cassandra spoke dryly, commanding the attention of all present. "Leave us. Chancellor," she continued, seeing a rebuke half-formed on his lips, "You have caused us all enough strife for one day."

"You cannot _possibly_  think—" 

"I  _heard_ the voices in the temple," the Nevarran insisted, steadfast in her deduction. "She is not guilty — the Divine called to her for help, and her alone." The warrior shook her head. "It is providence that has brought her to us, I am sure of it."

 _Your certainty is clouded by idealism_ , Airin thought, watching the Seeker's countenance darken even further. 

"Providence is only  _one_  probable cause, Cassandra," Leliana reminded her. "The Breach takes precedence over the mystery of the prisoner's circumstances, at least for the time being." 

"Yes," Cassandra said, her tone conveying the annoyance of someone whose ideals were not often tested. "Yes, I know." 

Rodrick grit his teeth. "You walk a dangerous line, Seeker." 

Airin watched as the taciturn woman lifted a thick volume from the table at the room's center, turning it so the cover was displayed. The rogue didn't recognize the symbol — a flaming eye struck through with a sword. "I trust you know what this is, Chancellor? A writ from Divine Justinia, granting us the authority to act in times of chaos," Cassandra stated, meeting Airin's confused gaze. "As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn."

If the rogue knew nothing else, she knew her fate was sealed with those words, though in what way she could not yet tell.  
  


* * *

  
Airin moved soundlessly through the woods surrounding Haven. Fists clenched around a worn wool cloak, she reflected on her "meeting" in the council room, if one could call it that. It had been a farcical attempt at reclaiming order where there was none, nothing more. Head thrumming with disconsolate thoughts, the metaphorical hold she sought was unreachable, even as her boot left an impression in the snow.

She was  _not_   the Herald of Andraste — a revered heroine born of foolish hope — but an assassin, a killer whose purse was filled with the bloody sovereigns of the snide rich. The rogue was sure that was the very definition of irony. Releasing a deep sigh into the frosted air, she thought of Anneliese as she made her way back to the training ground a few miles from the Chantry. What would she think of this? Airin could picture mirth-filled eyes and peals of laughter falling from the older woman's full mouth, but what did she know, now, of the mage's mind? Nothing, and she would not pretend otherwise — didn't wish to. The dream had been a... courtesy. An apology. The rogue would not let it be more.

"Herald, are you well?" Airin looked up, pulled from her reverie by Cassandra's brusque question. 

"As well as can be expected, Seeker," she replied with weariness apparent in her tone. 

Cassandra nodded stiffly, unsure of how to breach the topic of belief with the other woman. She had been thinking of a way to ask, but did not know how — she had never been one to waste words, much less speak them eloquently. "I... am aware that this situation is trying for you." 

The rogue smirked without humor, her lavender gaze flicking from the Nevarran's pensive expression to the row of headless hay-filled training dummies at her left. "It is for us both, I see." 

Color tinged tan cheeks. Airin smiled. "Yes," Cassandra admitted, voice dropping to a regretful murmur. "Justinia's death came far too soon, and far too cruelly. I take solace in knowing she is at the Maker's side, but even that does not fully ease the ache of her loss."

"I'm sorry." Lavender eyes softened a little as humanity was glimpsed behind carefully constructed stoicism. A neutral understanding of grief passed between them, manifested by a shared, if slight, nod. The Seeker knew of comradery, had implemented it long ago amongst those in the order closest to her, but life had hardened her, had caused her to look upon the possibility of solidarity with skepticism. Yet, she wondered if she could not find it again in the Hearld's gaze, which seemed to her to possess an intensity and depth wholly foreign to her.

"Thank you," she replied earnestly. They stood together in silence, each wearing an expression of forced pleasantness. Airin shifted on her feet, unaccustomed to being scrutinized with such seriousness. "Tell me," Cassandra began slowly, "Do you... Do you believe in the Maker?" 

The rogue sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, looked at the pious woman solemnly. "I can't answer that, Seeker. I am not sure of His existence, myself. Perhaps He lives in us all, or perhaps He does not, and forces by other names surround us. It is a question best left to the philosophers." 

"I — I see. I had hoped—"   

"That we might find common ground in our shared love of Him and the Chantry?" Airin shook her head, giving Cassandra a self-deprecating grin. "No, Seeker. I am not a Saviour made flesh, nor do I wish to be. I am merely a woman — a woman who, given her past, would never be called Andraste's disciple."

Cassandra shrugged, hiding her disappointment in the noncommittal gesture. "Andraste works in mysterious ways, as does the Maker. Sometimes it is hard to decipher Their wishes — what They require of us." Airin said nothing. The Seeker sighed. "Regardless,  _I_ have to believe in the path I am walking, even if you do not."  

"I've said nothing of not believing. I've told you that I simply employ different facets when viewing the world, as one is appt to do if they spend enough time in it." 

Dark eyes narrowed. "I am in the presence of a philosopher, it seems." Cassandra's mouth quirked in dry humor. "I think I preferred you bound and unconscious."  

The rogue laughed. "You are not the first to make that claim." The Seeker arched a brow, her training forgotten in lieu of learning something of the mysterious woman in front of her. Airin waved her hand dismissively. "But why would I trouble a clear conscious such as yours with the shortcomings of a scoundrel like myself, I wonder?" 

Cassandra blinked, her mouth pressing into a thin line as she perceived the veiled insult. "You act as though my hands are not bloodied, as if my eyes have not seen monstrous things. Do not presume to know me, Herald." 

"Ah, but did you not presume to know me? Did you not judge me by the preconceived notions undoubtedly written in a report?"

Cassandra opened her mouth, and, finding she had no reply, closed it again. 

Airin nodded curtly. "Good day, Seeker." She felt the warrior's eyes on her as she pivoted, sharp and narrowed. Her jaw working to keep a retort at bay, the rogue swallowed her anger and made her way to Solas' hut. Her side still ached from her jaunt, and the mage's touch was a practiced one.

He stood pensively outside the hovel he had deemed fit for himself, its distance from the others appealing to his misanthropic nature. With his hands linked behind his back and his somber gray eyes to the sky, he looked every bit the concerned scholar — one, Airin sumized, who had seen many things, and lived through many more, if the shadow that passed his face as he gazed at the Breach was any indication.

"Solas."

"Herald," he replied in greeting, turning to face her fully. "What can I do for you?"

The rogue resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his formality. She could sense he was teasing her, given the playful curve of his mouth as he spoke, but she was currently in no mood for games. "Never address me by that title again, I beg you. It reeks of righteousness. Airin — my name is Airin." 

The hedge mage chuckled. The Halfling's derision for her predicament was understandable, and he found the force with which she denounced it amusing. "You speak as though that is not an admirable quality,  _Airin_." 

"It isn't, when twisted to meet the desires of the self-serving."

Solas nodded sagely. "On that, we can agree. Come, let me see to your wound." Airin nodded. Following him inside, she shed her tunic with no pretense of false modesty, situating herself on the edge of his bed in a manner that appeared both graceful and uncaring. An inherent smoothness was embedded in her long limbs. as apparent as the scars that marred her skin. Kneeling, the mage set to work, placing his hands on her abdomen as the familiar glow of mana began to radiate from his palms. The rogue winced. He sighed. "You shouldn't exert yourself,  _arani_. You need time to heal."

"It was my only respite from the relentless  _prying_ ," Airin argued pointedly, frowning. "You can't fault me for that, being a creature of solitude yourself." 

"Indeed, I cannot," he conceded genteelly. "I simply do not wish to see you perish from infection while the very existence of Thedas hangs on your ability to harness the Breach through your mark." 

The rogue smiled wryly. "I doubt Cassandra would mind if I were to meet an untimely end. No, perhaps she would, but only in respect to the anchor being lost."

Solas released a breathy chuckle. "The Seeker is... forbearing, yes, but—" Airin arched a brow. "— Her life has demanded that she be apathetic. I do not agree with her views, nor her methods concerning the handling of magic, but I can understand being driven by fear. As can you, I imagine."

" _As ghilas ava fenedhis lasa_ ," the rogue growled. 

The hedge mage's gray eyes widened. Laughter broke free from his throat, and for a moment he was a boy again, his poise forgotten. " _Dirthas Elvhen_?" he asked, struggling to compose himself at the thought of a devotedly pious woman such as Cassandra performing the act. 

Violet eyes shone with mischief. "Only insults and bed-talk, I'm afraid. There was an elven servant I...  _encountered_  briefly while in Antivia — She was happy to teach me what she knew." 

Solas smirked. "I see." He paused, widening his fingers against the expanse of the rogue's toned abdomen. Slowly, he drew them together again, stitching the previously reopened wound. "I could teach you the less  _personal_ side of the language. You seem a woman who values the pursuits of the mind, and I have no doubt it will be of considerable value, given your current situation." 

Airin nodded, glad to have the distraction. 

"Very well." The elf got to his feet. "We shall start when time allows, for now I must return to my work." Nimble fingers snatched Airin's tunic from the floor. "Mind your ribs. My magic accelerated the healing, but it will still take some time." 

The rouge smiled. "I'll endeavor to be careful." 

"Somehow, I find that unlikely."   
  


* * *

  
The quiet of Airin's cabin was a welcome one. It wrapped itself around her like an old friend, and an old friend it was. She had first discovered the silence as a child, gazing out of her window in Ostwick. Even then, she had felt a call to the vastness of the sky and the depth of the stars. She had understood them, the sentinels of the night, ever watchful in the darkness. She'd learned from the silence, had crept about on soundless feet through the dark passages of the manor, escaping the reprimands of a nagging maid or the estrangement of her father. 

 _I am the sky,_ she told herself _,_  pressing a small, slightly pointed ear to the door of her father's study, listening intently to the muffled voices within. _I am the wind_. 

 _"It's the Elven blood in her,"_ her father declared.  _"It's making her recalcitrant!"_

 _"Gidion, please,"_ her mother interjected.  _"She is but seven winters old!"_

 _"Old enough to know her place!"_ he'd barked. " _You coddle her. What good will that bring, Rashel, when the world rejects her?! You **know** it will. A girl looking as she does cannot hope for a normal life once she is grown. M_ _aker forgive me, but she **must**  learn discipline. Kalob will train her, and, when she is of age, she will join the Templar order, as every Trevelyan has done before her."  _

_"She does not wish for that life, Husband. Surely you see that."_

_"It is her duty,"_  he replied firmly.  _"She shall embrace the Light — The Maker will guide her as He guides us all. "_

 _I am the wind,_ she repeated, pulling away from the door with a pained look that would serve as a prelude to a life not without hardship.  _I am the wind, and I yield to no one._

With a heavy sigh, Airin pushed away from the wall she was leaning against and went to her writing desk.  _I suppose there's no delaying it further,_  she thought, grimacing inwardly as she imagined her father's reply to her Uncle's death. She was sure he'd already caught wind of her unwanted appointment as Andraste's Herald, and if not... all the better. Drumming her fingers on the dented wood for a moment, she released a deep breath and begrudgingly took up a piece of parchment and a quill.

> _Father,_
> 
> _I'm certain word of the Conclave's destruction has reached you by now. You and Mother both can rest well knowing I'm alive._
> 
> _Unfortunately, I am unable to soften the news which I must relay. Words are capable of many things, but in this instance I find them lacking, for they cannot offer true solace. Uncle Kalob perished amidst the chaos of the explosion. I hadn't time to shield him. I'm sorry. I would send his effects back with this letter, were I able, but there is nothing left of him. Burn a pyre, as is our way, and though it will be empty, speak your sorrow onto the smoke. He will hear you._
> 
> _~Airin_


End file.
